


House of Cards

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the future Sylar takes his place as the newest member of the Petrelli family while Mohinder makes a living teaching at the university. They rarely cross paths except for a night like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of Cards

_I want to hold the hand inside you   
I want to take a breath that's true   
I look to you and I see nothing   
I look to you to see the truth   
You live your life   
You go in shadows   
You'll come apart and you'll go black   
Some kind of night into your darkness   
Colors your eyes with what's not there. _

_Fade into you   
Strange you never knew   
Fade into you   
I think its strange you never knew _   
**-Mazzy Star, _[Fade Into You](http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=IWvEXChflEE&feature=related)_ **

 

Mingling does not come naturally to Mohinder and an art gallery full of mostly strangers does not make the process any easier to navigate. He falls back on the amicable smile-and-nod with most as he wades through the chitter-chattering groups with a cranberry juice in hand so that he can pretend to be busying himself with something instead of focusing on feeling out of place.

The uplifting notes of the string quartet in the corner of the largest room accompany his journey. He pauses for a few minutes in front of various works of art that line the walls like breadcrumbs guiding him deeper inside. He knows nothing of art, but he is struck by certain paintings. The colours and strokes keep his eyes glued and deepen his breathing while taking his mind away, until someone jostles his arm and he is hugging the wall, alone, in a sea of the unfamiliar.

The who's who of New York is a foreign world to Mohinder. His lack of comfort is not found in eyes questioning who he is or disapproving of his presence. Rather it is in his near invisibility, despite being dressed for the part in a fitted dark blue suit, white button down shirt and tie, unlike his usually more casual attire. Still, no one seeks him out for conversation--who here would care to engage in discussions about genetics, biological anomalies, and evolution? There is only one, but that no longer seems to count for anything. By the same token there is no one he extends himself to, no one to laugh with and bond over feeling out of place, no one to create an inner sanctum with.

In the absence of a saving grace Mohinder goes through the motions. Brief eye contact is followed by a smile and nod, a sip of his drink and two steps forward; then eye contact, smile, nod, sip, steps. It is the dance of the awkward but he keeps moving until, through the mess of faces, he spots the evening's hosts.

Angela Petrelli, in a raw silk red dress, is the social and smiling ice queen greeting those she signals with a slight tilt of her head, encouraging them to approach. Though her grin is wide, her eyes are discerning, picking away at the details of everyone around her. Mohinder has been under that microscopic gaze before, a few times. But the first time--bringing her son Peter's allegedly dead body home--left an impression never forgotten, or forgiven. He sees her dislike for him (for what he reminds her of) in the narrow gaze she glares at him before moving on to those she deems worthy.

It does not matter that Peter lived and is standing next to her right now. Why would it, if it does not bother her that Peter's killer, Sylar, lived _and_ is the son she gave up for adoption--the same man who now stands protectively at her side? There is a discrepancy in what Angela considers forgivable, but blood _is_ thicker than water, Mohinder supposes.

Sylar (or Gabriel as he is properly referred to now) smiles and shakes hands at Angela's bequest. In a fitted black suit he looks sharp, not the messy haired slacker or roguish manipulator Mohinder had first crossed paths with. Now he looks like a Petrelli, a member of an elite family, he is the dutiful son re-anointed.

A few feet away Peter stands in the same suit but with a more dour expression on his face. His smile is genuine in that it is only half of one with closed lips, and a tinge of irritation in un-held eye contact. Mohinder guesses that Nathan's absence is weighing heavy on Peter's mind, as it should. The revelation of Sylar being a Petrelli, given his sordid history with Peter, had not gone over well with Nathan and Angela's insistence on acceptance had split further an already sizeable rift.

Peter glances his way and Mohinder nods, taking a sip. The lopsided grin that lights up Peter's face makes Mohinder smile in return. He watches Peter roll his eyes and excuse himself, weaving through the crowd towards him.

“Finally, a face I actually want to see,” Peter says with his arms wide open. “My backup has arrived.”

“How could I turn down an invite to such an opulent affair?” Mohinder grins and transfers his drink to his other hand so that he can properly greet his friend.

Peter grips his hand and pulls him close. “Show and tell.”

Mohinder looks at him questioningly and Peter explains, “If we _show_ you how happy we are and we _tell_ you how great the family is, then it _must_ be true.”

“Is it so bad?”

Peter looks over at Angela and Sylar. “Look at them. How good do you think it can be? Nathan hasn't shown up to one of these things in a year--I need a drink.”

Mohinder follows him to find a waiter. The tension in Peter's body is apparent in his squared shoulders and scattered steps one way and then another. He wishes he knew how to make things better for him but all he can offer Peter is an ear to listen to heartfelt confessions.

Sylar thrust into Peter's life as a blood brother had been upsetting to say the least. Angela embracing him, despite the blood he had spilled, as the true example of the son she deserved, was a bitter pill and Peter's tense relationship with her grew more strained. To Mohinder he lamented during late nights over chai, but he still did his part at public events, with Mohinder along as his support.

Peter suddenly stops and swipes a glass of champagne off of the tray of a passing waiter. Turning around he takes a sip and makes a face. “I don't even want this.”

Mohinder sighs and takes the drink from him, thrusting it into the hand of a passerby who is already buzzed for the night. He hands Peter his almost finished cranberry juice that is accepted with an apologetic smile.

“If this is hell for me,” Peter says after a thoughtful pause, “then it must be a freak show for you.”

“It…uh…it is what it is,” Mohinder stammers and softly admits.

“Is what it is?” Peter says derisively and he steps closer. “Gabriel turns your life upside down, then you end up working with him to bring my father down--and she still won't look at you and he's taken up the spot of favourite son without looking back.”

Mohinder knows Peter does not mean the trip down memory lane to be painful, but it is. Working with Sylar had been as much a surprise to him but with Peter ordered dead by Arthur Petrelli, Sylar's calculated plans to pretend to carry through the man's dirty work while secretly waiting and plotting to take him down had come at the same time that Mohinder, under Arthur's thumb, was trying to not only reverse the horrific side effects of a serum that would drastically change the world forever but to save himself from the nightmare his life had turned into. Being under the same roof a common goal had bound them to the same side.

It had lasted only as long as it needed to. Unexpectedly (or not) they had worked well together and in the months that followed, when their lives diverted again, Mohinder allowed himself to fathom that their ease was an odd extension of the time they had spent together when they first met. Inexplicably it had been both a good and terrible first impression, but enough of a tie had been forged between them that their future crossing of paths was as curious and familiar as they were antagonistic. But that was then.

“I don't think I'll ever win your mother over,” Mohinder says. “Bad memories for her. As for Sylar--he's always enjoyed the admiration of others. I'm happy with my life--just to have it back.”

His words bring relief to Peter who huffs out a low breath as he drops his shoulders. “So the teaching thing is working for you?”

“Yes, the _teaching thing _is going quite well.” Mohinder grasps Peter's shoulder. “I've been very fortunate that they've asked me to stay on. It's good conversing with interested young minds, open to new ideas but still challenging me along the way. I miss that from India.”

“But you're still doing your own work?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Peter nods. “I know you say you're happy with your life but I still think you're destined for greater things.”

Peter's attention shifts to the left and he rolls his eyes, muttering, “Speaking of destiny.”

Mohinder wrinkles his brow and looks to the right in time to see Sylar approaching them with a smooth walk, a steady gaze and a knowing smirk twisting up the right side of his mouth. Mohinder mentally prepares for the conversation that will surely follow.

“I see you've managed to join us tonight, Mohinder,” Sylar says. “I didn't think you could step away from such a busy life.”

Mohinder hears the hint of laughter in his voice but keeps cool. “Grading papers can wait a night.”

“Papers, how thrilling.” Sylar tilts his head to the side and Mohinder feels like a child being placated into feeling his life is more exciting than it is.

“Intellectual stimulation is something I thrive on,” Mohinder counters. “But sometimes even I need a break from it. Tell me, Sylar--,”

Mohinder feels Peter shift and chuckle in amusement at the use of an old name, and Sylar's dropped smile is all the ammunition Mohinder needs.

“What cerebral feats have you accomplished lately besides what suit to wear?”

Having the upper hand comes with the reward of feeling wonderfully in control, but the illusion of such power is easily cracked a few seconds later. Mohinder forgets his hand is still on Peter's shoulder until Sylar's eyes fall on the contact between their bodies. Without thinking as to why, Mohinder drops his arm to his side.

“It is a nice suit isn't it?” Sylar comments while still staring at the close space between Mohinder and Peter before re-directing his attention to Mohinder. “You don't need to concern yourself with what stimulates my mind.”

Sylar raises his right arm to indicate their surroundings. “As you can see my horizons have been expanded beyond the four walls of a lecture hall or the confines of a rental car.”

The slight causes Mohinder to glance at Peter, as a rush of injured pride pumps his heart. Peter catches the brief look and, nodding in Sylar's direction, says to Mohinder, “Ignore him. He hasn't realized these people only care about what they can get out of him.”

“If it's easier for you to think of me as blind or gullible, go ahead,” Sylar interrupts them. “But I'm not here with my eyes closed.”

“No, they're wide open,” Peter say, glaring. “You couldn't have asked for it better than to suddenly have this life given to you, everyone stepping around you in awe because _she tells them to_. You're not the first son, you know.”

“And you're not the last one,” Sylar retorts stepping closer so that their raised voices do not have to go beyond the decibel level of harshly spoken words. “Still playing second fiddle, and it suits you--but the whining has got to go, it's getting old.”

“You two always do pick the most inappropriate places to have it out,” Mohinder remarks, partly to himself.

“I knew I shouldn't have come,” Peter says turning his back on them for a second.

“Of course you should have come,” Mohinder says. “Do not make the mistake of turning your back on your family out of spite or dislike. They're still the ones who were there with you your whole life.”

The last bit is said with his eyes on Sylar, who he guesses gets the secondary meaning by the way he drops his gaze to the floor then back up.

“Yeah, but it's all come at a price,” Peter argues. “There's nothing unconditional about this family.”

He leans into Sylar's space. “Isn't that right, _brother_?”

“It doesn't have to be like this,” Sylar says softening the combativeness in his tone while remaining forceful. “You choose to fight. You force sides.”

Peter returns the steely stare then scoffs and looks over at Mohinder who is riveted by the power struggle between the brothers. “Didn't I tell you? Mom's good little boy, defending her honour to the end--for all the love she showed him before it was in her best interest.”

Mohinder stares at Sylar whose eyes flit over to him. His expression is vague and Mohinder senses uneasy trepidation behind the stoic mask. “Maybe you should let it go,” Mohinder quietly suggests to Peter. “At least for tonight.”

“Why should I--,”

Mohinder squeezes Peter's arm to stop him. “Airing dirty laundry tonight will not serve you well.”

Realization dawns in Peter's widening eyes and he looks from Mohinder to the people around them (a few of which are casting sideways glances at them) then to Sylar and back to Mohinder, who drops the grip on his arm.

“You're right. I'm sorry,” Peter apologizes to Mohinder, purposely ignoring Sylar in the process.

Mohinder draws his lips into a tight line and nods. He lifts his gaze to Sylar and, trying to sound conversational, says, “Peter tells me you're now working with Elle.”

Caught off guard by the change in direction Sylar blinks back his surprise and answers, “Yes. A few months now.”

“I was a bit surprised to hear that,” Mohinder continues. “Last I had heard Elle had been cut loose by Angela--after you'd murdered her father.”

Sylar waits before answering. “She had a change of heart.”

While Mohinder ponders the lunacy of the statement, Peter mutters, “That seems to be going around.”

Mohinder gives him a _'play nice' _look and Peter flips his hands up at the wrists, yielding a resigned apology.

“That's an interesting partnership.” Mohinder settles his eyes back on Sylar. “She has a very flashy power. Very tempting I would think.”

“I _can_ control myself,” Sylar says as he ignores the fake smile on Mohinder's face that is meant to pass the suggestion of self-indulgence and murderous tendencies off as a joke. “I'm not some spoiled kid taking everything in sight.”

“Not now,” Mohinder says instinctively and the words are across his lips before he can snatch them back.

Sylar narrows his eyes and angles his head down. Standing to his full height he looms an imposing figure. “Not now. Not for awhile. I take what I deserve, what I'm entitled to. But it's not some gluttonous free for all.”

“I didn't mean to imply--,”

“I don't particularly care what you mean,” Sylar snaps and Mohinder senses Peter tense next to him, moving forward out of protection. “You cast a lot of judgments for someone who willingly mutated his own body.”

“Don't,” Mohinder warns and he pushes in front of Peter, firmly planting himself in Sylar's space.

Sylar grins mockingly. “Tell me, Mohinder, how noble was your cause? The people you harvested--were they all willing participants in your quest to better humanity?”

“I think you've made your point,” Mohinder states, angry with himself for showing his own emotions so easily.

“Actually I think I'm just getting started,” Sylar taunts.

“Well then you'll be talking to yourself. I need some fresh air.” Mohinder pushes by Sylar and begins to walk towards the entrance, hearing Peter comment, “Well that went well,” as he enforces a growing distance between himself and them.

Shuffling through the wall of packed in bodies, Mohinder's mind is filled with Sylar's well-aimed personal barbs. A year and a half after the fact and Mohinder still feels the sting of shame and regret for what should have been a remarkable scientific breakthrough. His derailment had not only been selfish and dangerous, but it was a spectacular failure of conscience as he had caused unforgivable pain along the way.

In the aftermath Peter had cautiously accepted his heartfelt condolences and, with his help, Mohinder had slowly rebuilt his life into something he could be proud of. When he had worked with Sylar the subject of his epic failure had only come up a few times. At the start it was so Sylar could tease him, calling attention to similarities they shared that Mohinder would prefer to not ruminate on. Later on the subject had come up more seriously as curious and dignified discussions about theorems and (misguided) hopes.

In a matter of seconds though Sylar has wielded a strong arm of power and sent Mohinder into a tailspin. It had been so long since he had spoken with Sylar and in that time the more comfortable moments they had shared were recreated in his mind as more _them_ than the belligerent attacks and counterattacks. Why he wanted to believe in that he is unsure, but the truth has reared its ugly head again and Mohinder needs to get out of the restrictive space as fast as he can.

Pushing the door to the gallery open he takes two steps outside and gasps in a huge breathe of cool night air. Looking up past the street lamps he stares at the black sky speckled with stars and inhales and exhales deeply, feeling the air fill his lungs. He walks a few feet and spots an empty doorway to his right. Wanting some amount of privacy to gather his wits he steps up on the stoop and leans his back against the frame of the wall. Mohinder closes his eyes, folds his arms across his chest, and thinks meditative thoughts about India, his mum, Molly, Mira.

Footsteps across the sidewalk and car tires on the road fill his ears. After a minute he opens his eyes and sees Sylar walking from the direction of the gallery. The concerned look on his face relaxes when he meets Mohinder's gaze and he slows down.

Mohinder groans and turns to rest his side against the wall while facing the street. “Did Peter send you out to play nice?”

Sylar slowly walks up to him and stops. “You didn't get very far.”

Mohinder glares at him and says, “I wasn't running away.”

“You never do,” Sylar offers quietly and steps up next to Mohinder. He leans back against the other wall and watches Mohinder who remains facing forward.

They stand together in quiet with the sounds of the city circling around them as a midnight soundtrack. “It can be a lot to take in there,” Sylar eventually says.

Mohinder looks over at him and meets his gaze. “You seem to have adapted to it quite well.”

“Intuitive aptitude,” Sylar jokes and raises his right eyebrow, the hint of a grin turning up the corners of his lips.

Mohinder gives him a closed mouth half smile. He focuses on the array of strangers passing by: dressed up, dressed down, heels clicking, dress shoes tapping, sneakers scuffing the pavement, laughing voices, determined conversations, faint beat of music from a loud ipod. And then there is he and Sylar in a doorway confidential.

“Is…” Mohinder says to the street then casts his gaze on Sylar. “Is this what you really wanted?”

“The suit? I think it looks pretty smooth.” Sylar flattens down the front of his jacket and exaggeratedly fixes his tie. “You clean up relatively well yourself.”

Mohinder rolls his eyes. “I'm being serious,” he sighs. “The world you're now in is very different than the one you grew up in.”

“And in your eyes I don't belong here?”

Mohinder holds up his left hand to halt Sylar's aggressive tone. “This isn't an attack on you. Don't be so defensive.”

Sylar presses his lips together and muffles a sigh of irritation.

“You do…fit in,” Mohinder says. “But to do so you've essentially turned your back on everything from before.”

“My life before was make believe,” Sylar says and looks down at his shoes, then back up. “This is the life I was meant to live. This is the life that was kept from me. Why shouldn't I immerse myself in it now?”

Mohinder takes a deep breath. He had not anticipated having this conversation and is unprepared for how to approach it. He struggles for the right words, for a conversation he fears can only happen now at this precise moment, or the chance will be lost.

“This is going to sound like I'm making a comparison between you and Peter but it's not intended to sound so…just hear me out before you jump on me,” Mohinder prefaces his point and waits for Sylar's silent approval of a nod, complete with an annoyed huff, to continue.

“Peter grew up in this very exclusive world but he sought out those who were not part of it, those who did not--could not--belong. You, on the other hand, came from the outside and have cut ties with everyone--everything--from before.”

Sylar contemplates the analysis then asks, “You have a problem with me not talking about the shop or my parents or feeling completely alone? You want me to hold onto the past--to the things that accepted and ensured mediocrity instead of greatness?”

In Sylar's defiant answer Mohinder is suddenly all too aware that he is in trouble. The toughly worded sentiment, which is very much Sylar, unexpectedly hurts Mohinder's feelings--feelings he should not be having. He is struck by the possibility that they have always been there but were buried underneath the reality of circumstances. He is bothered not only by Sylar's ability to write off his familial past, but by extension, the piece of the past that the two of them had shared.

If Mohinder willed himself to remove the worst of what had brought them together he had to admit that they had still embarked on something remarkable and unparalleled. At least for him, they had. Now it seems a very one-sided experience, and regarding that as fact makes him feel bizarrely disconnected from his own life.

“Why does it have to be one or the other?” Mohinder questions. “Is there absolutely nothing of your old life worth keeping?”

Mohinder feels surprisingly on display as Sylar regards him. “The things I would hold onto only hurt in the end,” Sylar tells him. “Where you see vindictive coldness I'm simply…protecting what matters most.”

“Yourself.”

Sylar raises both arms, palms up, and steps towards Mohinder until his chest is almost bumping Mohinder's left arm. “I learned a long time ago that no one else is going to do that for me.”

“You're definitely Angela's son,” Mohinder says and looks down at the sidewalk.

“Yes, I am.”

Mohinder turns around to face Sylar, putting his back to the wall. “She--they don't look too kindly on those who don't fit in. I don't really belong here.”

“That's never stopped you from coming,” Sylar says with a trace of admiration, as if the action is a show of unrestricted individualistic refusal in accepting pre-assigned societal positions.

Undeserving of such admiration, Mohinder clarifies. “For Peter. I come because he asks me to.”

Curiosity rises on Sylar's face. “And if I asked you to?” he wonders aloud, searching Mohinder's eyes with an unprepared for insistence.

“But you wouldn't,” Mohinder points out. “So why should the answer matter?”

“You think I tow Angela's line,” Sylar says and the defensiveness in his voice is undeniable.

“To a point,” Mohinder agrees. “Either because you don't want to rock the boat or because you honestly believe this is how a true Petrelli behaves.”

Sylar angles his head downward and peers up. “You don't think much of me in this   
life--,”

“No.”

“But it's mine now. And I'm going to make it what it needs to be.” Sylar brings his right hand up like he is about to place it on Mohinder's shoulder, but their nearness is too intimate for it to be any kind of innocent gesture, and he drops his hand to his side. “My abilities and this life all came together after so much…_distraction_.”

“And everything you've done up to now is pardoned?” Mohinder asks with a stern stare and head to the side. “May I inform you it doesn't work that way. This isn't like a commuted life sentence. You act like you've finally been rewarded for being an obedient boy--biding your time, then hurting many, all to get here.”

Sylar does not budge from the unwavering gaze and Mohinder leans his forward. “You're not misunderstood, Sylar. You weren't wronged. You made choices. You're still making them. You've accepted this life without--You've accepted it without the remorse or regret for what you've done. You live this life within certain limitations because you see a more worthy payoff.”

“You don't know what I feel for what I've done. Can you forgive me my past?”

“Never.” Mohinder wants out of the contentious conversation as it continues to spiral down a difficult and personally unraveling road. The entire exercise is turning into more of a convoluted mess than it is worth and they may as well be speaking in tongues for all the headway they are making. “How would I? No, I've found a way to work around it, not pretend it doesn't exist.”

“You speak as if you're so certain,” Sylar says inching forward so that his every breath raises his chest against Mohinder's crossed arms. “Like there is no doubt how one should act, but we both know that's the luxury of hindsight. So please don't lecture me with it. You've made choices too and not all have had proud outcomes--you made decisions based on circumstances as well. We're not as different as we seem at times.”

Mohinder closes his eyes in thought then opens them and agrees, “I'm all too aware of that.” He rests his head back against the wall and stares upwards at the stoop's ceiling; then lowers his sight to Sylar. “Why did you come out here?”

Sylar turns up the side of his mouth. “I miss playing games with you--you're the only one who apparently gets the rules. But it's been a long time.”

“Games? Is that what we do?”

“…yes…”

“There are rules?”

Sylar smirks. “Most definitely.” His countenance is more relaxed, seemingly taking his cue from Mohinder's engagement in a vaguely amused exchange.

Although Mohinder feels a nostalgic comfort in their interaction he is also aware that is not for long. Off of this stoop, beyond the dawn that looms a few hours away, this will be no more than posturing for something neither can truly explain. So what is the point of treating it as anything other than what it is? Mohinder equates it to ripping the band-aid off.

“It doesn't exist in that world,” Mohinder says nodding towards the sidewalk and the direction of the party from which they have both come. “And this here is no more than a temporary illusion.”

He watches Sylar's face collapse into blankness then inquisitiveness as he raises an eyebrow that silently encourages Mohinder to explain.   
“There's a reason it's been a long time,” Mohinder says standing upright, the adjustment of which reactively sends Sylar back a few steps. “Back then we crossed paths so often in such a short period of time. Subconsciously grew accustomed to the expectation, I suppose. But then it all settled into what it was meant to be--I become a professor again and you became a Petrelli…and never the two shall meet.”

“That sounds very fatalistic of you,” Sylar ponders with a slightly befuddled expression. “Often or not--,”

“It's not the same. It can't be.”

“Says you.”

“No,” Mohinder challenges and even he hears the bitterness in his own voice. “_You_ accepted the price.”

“What about you, doctor? With your humble little life, all the while dabbling in the work you just can't let go of.” Sylar tilts his head back and stares down his nose at him.

Mohinder is surprised at Sylar's knowledge of his life since they no longer saw each other and it plays out in his soundless open mouth betraying his belief in having the upper hand.

“Don't talk to me about accepting a price,” Sylar says. “You took the easy road--,”

“Easy? What's easy about starting from scratch?”

“You hand out opinions as punishment,” Sylar says not backing down. “But you don't swallow it so easily.”

“I judge those who believe themselves to be above scrutiny,” Mohinder asserts with a clenched jaw.

Sylar closes the space between them. “You judge me more harshly.”

“Because I hold you to a different standard,” Mohinder quickly retorts.

“Which is?” Sylar demands. His eyes flash with frustration and the lines on his face in the dim light make him appear more angular and shaded, imposing.

Mohinder grabs the bottom of Sylar's tie and yanks it just hard enough to pull at Sylar's neck. Leaning forward, Mohinder says, “I liked you more when you were a Gray.”

With that he leaves Sylar speechless and heads back to the gallery. Inside the main doors he steadily maneuvers through the loud and claustrophobic crowd until he reaches the coat check. He wants to get out of this place, filled with strangers and skeletons from the past (all that work together to make him feel alone when he should be feeling happy with his life), fast. However he knows he cannot leave without saying goodbye to Peter first and so instead of heading back out into the night he wades further into the gallery with his jacket swung over his left arm.

The crowd is too thick and swaying, like ocean waves, to make out one face clearly from a distance. Frustration wrinkles into the lines of Mohinder's forehead and he pushes up on his tiptoes to try to peer over all the heads. He is close to giving up when he spots Peter talking with Angela. Mohinder begins to move towards them, tempted to call out Peter's name, when Sylar suddenly steps up behind the young Petrelli. Mohinder freezes.

Sylar does not announce his presence; he simply stands behind Peter looking pensive. A few seconds later Peter's bored expression transforms into confusion and he turns to look at Sylar who does not return the gaze. Mohinder watches Peter gaze down at the floor then suddenly grimace and grab his head with his right hand.

Mohinder backs up a few steps, apologizing as he bumps into revelers, but keeps watch of the brothers. Angela appears to ask Peter if he is okay then shushes him away. Peter stares at Sylar as he walks off but Sylar remains where he is and keeps his gaze, unfocused, on the crowd.

Mohinder turns around and moves through the throngs of people but his lack of attention is disorientating and he ends up in another room, confused and annoyed. He tells himself to think clearly and turns around to head to the front doors.

“What did you pull over on him outside?” Peter asks, suddenly next to him. He appears to be a mix of curiosity and amusement while he massages his left temple.

Mohinder jolts. “Pardon?”

“Gabriel,” Peter says, dropping his hand to his side. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing of importance. Why?” Mohinder says behind a pretense of indifference.

“Whatever it was his mind is now a mess,” Peter explains with a shake of his head as if to clear away the remnants of whatever has spilled into it.

Mohinder hesitates, truthfully uncertain about what is playing out in Sylar's head. “How so?”

“I don't know.” Peter shrugs his shoulders. “I couldn't see it clearly but he definitely can't control it. It's…I don't know. It hurt like a bitch, though.”

Mohinder smiles at the comment but is struck by the suggestion of Peter's implication. “He dislikes being called out for bad behavior,” he suggests absentmindedly, knowing he is reaching for answer that is both possible yet can keep Peter from prying further.

“You've done that before. This is different.”

“Remorse then--,”

“Since when does Gabriel feel remorse?”

Mohinder gestures with his arms wide and nearly hits a passerby with his coat. “Well I don't know what has his mind all twisted,” he says exasperatedly.

Peter grabs his right arm and pulls him close. “Look, I don't expect you to tell me what it is that still…_bothers_ you two. That's your guys thing. I'm just saying that I've never felt his mind like that.”

Mohinder is momentarily without words. It has never been a secret that he and Sylar interact on a level that bears only their own weight. Others have learned to skirt around it, willfully ignoring the nagging questions. Distance can render the lesson forgotten and then the inquiry or sentiment hangs unanchored in the air until it fades away. Peter's unwavering stare, however, tells Mohinder he is not easily off the hook tonight.

“We reminisced about old times,” Mohinder says secretively.

Peter scoffs. “When life was good?”

“When it looked like things would go a different way,” Mohinder says sternly, daring him to push this further.

Peter takes the hint and backs off, but not before rolling his eyes. “Great, I get to spend the rest of the night trying to tune him out.”

The gesture to not interrogate further may be part of an act to diffuse the situation but it still works in relieving Mohinder's nerves. They say their goodbyes and Mohinder begins a more casual stroll to the exit. He is unaware he is scanning the crowd for Sylar until he spots him far off to the left. Sylar looks to be deep in thought until his eyes meet Mohinder's.

Even through the shifting space between them their gaze feels unencumbered. Splotches of movement decorate Mohinder's peripheral vision but Sylar is sharp lines and bold colours. Stopped on the spot, Mohinder slips his coat on under Sylar's penetrating eyes then stares back at him. Mohinder doubts reading minds would be helpful at this time. Rather it would only add another obstacle, overwhelming and daunting, to be overcome or crushed under. Life as he knows it is troubling enough. Yet there is a part of him that wishes the story could be rewritten--one day.

Sylar breaks away from him and Mohinder watches him cross the floor over to Angela's side where she introduces him to a middle age couple. Mohinder takes a deep breath and heads towards the front door, stepping out in the bustling night. Briskly walking at a pace that conveys unswayable purpose, he heads back to the world he has grown accustomed to all the while trying not to look over his shoulder from where he came.   
 


End file.
